Disclaimer: Rowling owns one half, Joss Whedon the other one. I've just mixed them up for fun. And the last line belongs to the song 'Unwell' by Matchbox 20-

Summary: 'I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell'. Percy drowns his sorrows at the Hog's Head, while he reflects on a new job offer and his messed up life after the events of OotP. Slight X-over with Angel the Series.

Spoilers: Slight spoilers of OotP.

Rating: PG (there's a little bit of cursing).

Genre: Angst/General

Characters: Percy Weasley, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

Notes: English isn't my mother language so, if you find any mistakes in my fic or there is something you might want to tell me, don't be afraid of reviewing. I'll accept any constructive criticism and I'll ignore the flames so feel free to send me a review.

Unwell

The place was dark, the filthy windows letting almost no light in. It wouldn't have made a difference, anyway. It was a rainy September morning and everything looked in different shades of grey. That's what my life's become. Grey.

Where had the 'black and white' conception of life been left? There had been a time when he had known about right and wrong, black and white, goodness and evil. Or at least he'd thought he did. Now his whole world seemed to be upside down. All the beliefs he had so proudly defended were shattered around him and he wasn't sure where he was standing anymore. Just one thing was still clear as daylight. I'm such a fool.

He had always been, but that fact had appeared to be well hidden under a mask of bookish intelligence back then. Most people thought he was smart. He had believed it himself until life (and death) proved him wrong. Now he knew the truth. He was just an idiot, too naïve to realise what things were really about, too blind to see what was standing in front of his very eyes.

The young man took a glance around even though there wasn't much to see. At this time of the morning there were very few people at the old pub. The major part of the magical population were at their works. It was Tuesday, after all. But he didn't have a job. He didn't have a shit actually. No couple, no friends… no family.

He took another drop of firewhisky. If some of his fellow classmates at Hogwarts could see him now… They wouldn't believe their eyes. The Hog's Head, with its filthy glasses and dusty tables was the last place anyone would expect to find him. And that was part of the reason he had gone there. His former self would have never set foot in a place like that. Now, though, he thought the obscure inn matched his mood. And it was much better than staying at the small apartment, which could hardly be called home, with its nude walls and its cold floors. With only the shadows of his past life and the greyness of his new one to make him company.

And the voices, ah, the voices that reververated in his head every time he was alone. If only he could made them stop. If only he could take back all the stupid things he had done and said. If only…

He shook a little his head. He was so lame sometimes. Of course he couldn't change the past. It was pointless to fill his mind with "if only-s". What had been done was done and it was impossible to change or take back. He had to stop with the self pity.

But he couldn't help letting out a faint sigh. He felt so… empty. Cold. Numb. He had always known where he was headed for. He had always had a purpouse, a goal to achieve. His life had always made perfect sense. Now it didn't seem to have sense at all. He had lost his senses.

Ultimately, when he looked himself at the mirror (in very, very rare ocassions) he didn't recognize his own face. Once, he had been a skinny boy-young man with a freckled nose and sharp eyes, who wore glasses and with not a single flaming hair out of its place. Now all he saw was a strange man with a gaunt face and hollow eyes, the glasses and most of his freckles gone, in urgent need of a haircut and a shave. He couldn't care less. In all his life he had insisted in the importance of making a good impression, but who would he want to impress now? All the people that mattered had already seen what a failure he was, so what was the point? People wouldn't think less of him because of his appearance. Hell, he couldn't get any lower to the ground than he already was.

There had been a while when he would have looked scandalized and disapprovingly at anyone with his attitude. He used to hate people who gave up. He had sworn he would never give up his dreams, his purpouse in life. And that had led him to lose it all.

So now he laughed cynically every time he was reminded of how he used to be and how he used to see the world. And it really didn't matter to him if people stared at him because he was laughing alone. He couldn't care less. Let them stare. Let them think I'm mad. Let them whisper behind my back. 'Cause anyway all of them know what a git I turned to be. So who cares if they also think I'm gone nuts?

A sudden movement took place at the front of the tavern and the red-haired wizard raised his head, glancing at the door.

A man in his early thirties stood in the doorframe for a moment, scanning the room while he tried to adjust his sight to the shadows that filled the place, and finally his gaze met his. The older man made a small gesture with his hand to ackowledge his presence and made his way through the tables to the dark and isolated corner where he was sitting.

'Morning, Mr.Wyndam-Pryce. I hope you've had a nice journey.'

The words came out of his mouth automatically and also automatically he stood up and shaked the other man's hand. Slightly amused he noticed Pryce was wearing some robes and a cloack, instead of the leather jacket and blue jeans he had used in their first interview. And what else could he use in Hogsmeade? It wasn't not like he could have showed up dressed like a muggle. Even if he was one. He wondered how he had managed to arrive to the only one completely non-muggle town in Great Britain without using magic. Or maybe he had used magic, after all. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce didn't seem to be a normal non-magical person anyway.

'Really nice, indeed, in spite of the weather. It seems I've got too used to the sunny California' Hearing his accent it was hard to believe he had been outside Oxford in his life at all. His voice sounded elegant and cultured, a voice that clearly belonged to someone from the upper class. All he had always wanted to be, until his dreams and ambitions had been tore apart. 'I apologize if I made you wait.'

'Oh, no, you're punctual. I am the one who's been too early. I just wanted to get out from…my house' He wondered why he was giving away so much information. These were times you could trust no one entirely. See who's talking. The same one who walked away from his family because he didn't believe in the Dark Lord's return.

Anyway, Pryce nodded understandingly as if he knew what Percy meant. And maybe he did. His eyes were dark in spite of being blue, and he suspected its darkness had nothing to do with colour, but with the shadows that came from guilt and shame, from bitter words never spoken and tears never shred. From messing up your own life to the point there was no return. Oh yes, Percy knew those shadows too well. He saw them every time he looked at the mirror. And yet, there was a spark, a tiny light in those eyes impossible to ignore. A light of someone who had fallen and yet he had got up again, maybe? A tiny light of hope, if such a thing existed for people like him?

They made small talk until Pryce's drink arrived. It surprised Percy that the older man didn't look bothered for the dodgy inn. Pryce stated that he'd spent most of his time at places like this, when he was working as an investigator. And that led them to business.

'Have you thought about my offer, Mr.Weasley?'

Percy took another gulp of his firewhisky before answering.

'Yes, I have' He said, catiously 'It's a very interesting offer, indeed.'

He wasn't lying at all. Working for the new Watcher's Council, where many of his coworkers would be muggles (if you could call the supernaturally powerful Slayers just mere muggles), Wiccan witches and wizards (who weren't in high esteem in the traditional magical enviroment) and from what Pryce had said, also some good demons and vampires if such a thing existed. It wouldn't be the rutinary paperwork he was used to. In fact, it appeared it would be an extremely dangerous and demanding job, and the payment wasn't that good. The exact kind of job he would have rejected just a few months back, horrified. However, here he was, in his second interview with his mightly would be employer and he was seriously considering signing the contract. There was only one thing that both bothered and intrigued him.

'I do have a small doubt, though. A question I'd like to ask you.'

'Go ahead.'

Percy swallowed and cleared his throat, in a pompous way remaining of his former self.

'Why did you choose me for this job?'

That clearly wasn't what Pryce had been expecting.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I was wondering', Percy said, trying not to sound that pompous and hidding the insecurity he was suddenly feeling, 'why did you choose me for a job like this. My past jobs were mostly paperwork, and I am sure there are plenty of wizards with better qualifications.'

The older man looked at him pensively, although Percy thought he had spoted a hint of amusement in his eyes.

'There's no doubt there are many wizards with better qualifications', he finally answered in a soft voice, 'but there aren't that many I would trust.'

The wizard was a little taken aback when he heard those words. Trust? When had been the last time someone had trusted him at all?

'After I screwed it up the way I did?'

He hadn't realised what he was saying until the words were out of his mouth. Pryce didn't seem to bother, though. In fact, the hint of amusement was more obvious than ever. However, the amusement was quickly replaced by a hint of sadness.

'Mr.Weasley, may I call you Percy?' The young man nodded. 'Well, Percy, I've had the chance to discover that often the people who have screwed up things are the most reliable of all. It might sound lame and naïve, but most people do learn from their mistakes. And honestly', he added, a little sardonic now, 'would you trust someone who tells you he never screwed up things?'

It made sense, of course. But he still had some doubts. Pryce must have noticed his hesitation, because he spoke again, this time neither sad nor sardonic, but in a comprehensive and somewhat friendly way:

'Look, Percy, not so long ago I was standing right there where you're now. And before you ask me, in that time neither I had the slightest idea of where I was standing exactly' How had he known? 'And I had no idea of what to do or where to go. My world had turned upside down, and I was on my own or so I thought. But I did realise that staring at the nude walls of my bedroom or drowning my sorrows in a pub I wouldn't find any answers. So', His tone changed again, this time more businesslike, 'if you decide you want to work for us, you already know where my office is. Just give me a call before coming… or send me an owl' he rectified at Percy's puzzled look. 'And, by the way, if you're going to work for us, you can call me Wesley from now on.'

Percy stayed at the Hog's Head for a short while after Mr. Wyndam-no, Wesley's departure, thinking over things. Thinking of a boy whose biggest dream had been to become Minister of Magic. Of a boy who had grown up to turn his back on his family, the people that loved him most in the world, in order to chase that dream and had also lost his friends, couple and dignity along the way. He thought of a young man (had he really just turned twenty?) who spent most of his time looking at the blank walls of his bedroom, watching the shadows, or drinking firewhisky in a dodgy pub. A young man who had lost his nerve, his purpouse in life, whose dreams had been shattered mercilessly in just one moment. A young man who no longer recognized himself.

As he got out the Hog's Head and felt the fresh- almost chilly- air in his face, another thought came to his mind. Yes, maybe he had lost all he cared about. Yes, maybe he had screwed up things. He might be a man who had lost his north. However, as he watched the persons wandering in the wet streets, everyone lost in their own lives, it occured to him that maybe getting up again wouldn't be so hard. Maybe finding a reason to open his eyes every morning wouldn't be such a difficult task.

'And maybe I'll be able to recognize myself again when I look my face in a mirror.'

A middle-aged witch glared at him, probably thinking he had gone nuts. Percy smirked. I'm not crazy, madam. I'm just a little unwell.